


The Beginnings

by Iva1201



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Gen, Protective Mycroft, Serial Suicides Do Exist, Statistics Are Not Always Reliable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-20 18:30:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1521092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iva1201/pseuds/Iva1201
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events leading to A Study in Pink and A Study in Pink with a twist - Sherlock being wrong on his first case with John. Why Sherlock needed a flatmate, why he had to prove a point to Lestrade and why the hell the Detective Inspector didn't want to contact him earlier?</p><p> </p><p> <b><i>It is a sad fact that our police forces are not employing very bright-headed officers. Despite that, one would think that a simple look into the eyes of an addict, or observing of the unstoppable trembling of a junkie's hands would lead even a half-competent policeman to the deduction that they are facing a person abusing the controlled substances, in particular those classified as Class A. (...)</i></b><br/> </p><p>  <b><i>The writer of these lines decided on proving his theory that the intoxication of the suspect by the above mentioned drug was much more time-limited than the testimonies tried to convince us so far. After having run a controlled experiment on his own person with the same amount and concentration of the aforementioned controlled substance, he can now prove that this particular batch of the drug would leave a person incapable of qualified decisions for less than half of the previously claimed time. </i></b><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Experiment

_Sherlock Holmes's Montague Street Flat_

_23rd September_

_(four months before meeting John Watson)_

_It was for the case,_ Sherlock repeated to himself, eyeing the pills on the table in front of him with a slight hesitation. _Swallowing one of them would not make him addicted – and he highly doubted that he would enjoy the high provided by the Ecstasy anyway. No, there was no danger in the experiment. None at all – except Mycroft or Lestrade finding out and not understanding that Ecstasy was by no means comparable to his favoured seven percent solution…_

Mycroft and Sherlock had an agreement. Sherlock would stay clean and Mycroft would cover the costs of his living, paying his rent, equipment needed for his experiments and provide him with a small stipend to cover his other needs. Sherlock would then, _very occasionally,_ assist him in solving hopefully not too boring governmental cases. 

Lestrade and Sherlock had another agreement. Sherlock would stay clean (this condition was non-negotiable) and the Detective Inspector would invite him to consult on his less ordinary cases. There wouldn't be any monetary gain there for Sherlock, unless he ever wanted to join Lestrade's team for real employment – an event both the men didn't want to even consider a real possibility. Sherlock would no doubt drive Lestrade mad if they would see each other daily. No, this solution was much better. Both of them agreed. 

Sherlock stared at the pills, considering. 

_If Mycroft would find out, he would cut down on his stipend and the money for the equipment for his experiments, perhaps even threaten to no longer pay his rent. The last would be an empty threat, his brother wouldn't want him to live in the streets again and be truly tempted. No, it would be the stipend and the equipment money only. He would manage several months without the stipend – and Molly and Mike would no doubt let him use the lab in St. Bart's for his experiments. All things considered, Mycroft finding out was no huge problem._

_Lestrade would be worse,_ Sherlock thought. _If the DI would find out, he would cut Sherlock's access to crime scenes, leaving Sherlock bored out of his mind. And while Mycroft not paying his rent or research equipment would be disadvantageous, Lestrade's actions might actually lead to Sherlock's true relapse. Not that Sherlock particularly cared right now – solving the case currently occupying his mind appeared much more appealing to him at the moment. All things considered, it was Lestrade's case he was trying to solve – and Lestrade couldn't protest against his methods to unravel it after being stuck on it for over two weeks._

 _Right then, the benefits of his action would outweigh the possible consequences on this front,_ Sherlock thought, satisfied, _and Mycroft be damned._ He reached his pale slim hand forward and took one of the pills, swallowing it and starting a countdown timer on his mobile phone to determinate how long it took for an average young male (by body weight and height, not by the capacity of the brain, certainly) to get high on Ecstasy and then come down again. The results would ensure one man's freedom or possible imprisonment for taking a life…

ooooo 

_Mycroft Holmes's office in the Diogenes Club_

_Later the same day_

_DI Lestrade was not happy, no, not at all. He looked rather angry – and, if he was able to identify the emotion correctly, quite disappointed,_ Mycroft Holmes thought, pensively observing the man while he got off the car in front of the Diogenes Club. _Sherlock was most likely in a serious trouble then,_ Mycroft sighed, his hope for a calm and peaceful evening crashing. 

"Good evening, Detective Inspector. What has my little brother done now?" Mycroft asked without preamble, offering his counterpart a tumbler of whiskey and gesturing at him to take a seat. Armed with his own glass, Mycroft lowered himself back into his armchair, waiting. 

Gregory Lestrade's frown deepened as he accepted the glass and seated himself opposite to Mycroft. Staring into the golden liquid in the tumbler, the man admitted: "Your dear brother is driving me mad again. He arrived to the Yard today, barely sobered up from whatever he had taken, claiming to have solved my latest case for me. I am sorry, Mycroft, but after realising he was just coming down from a high, I threw him out. I hope he won't feel driven to ingest more of whichever drug he favours these days, but I simply cannot work with him like that. When you see him, tell him that he is not to seek me out until he is sure he can stay clean and sober – and I have had enough time to cool down. You can inform him also that it might take a couple of weeks this time; I do not feel generous right now." 

Lestrade downed the whiskey in one go then and stood. "You might want to question him if the drug he used this time was Ecstasy. Our suspect claims he was under influence of it in the time his girlfriend was murdered – and apparently cannot remember a thing. I wouldn't put it above your brother to experiment with it on himself. But, no matter how harmless Ecstasy might seem in comparison with the shit he was poisoning himself with in the past, I am not interested in his results if he is to endanger his life or health again like this. I will not have him on my conscience… Have a good day, Mycroft." The Detective Inspector set his tumbler on the table separating them and left the room. 

Mycroft Holmes put his glass down as well, his whiskey untouched. _Brother dear,_ he thought, _time to teach you a bit responsibility._ He pulled out his phone and dialled the number of his assistant. "Please, locate my brother and bring him to me. We have some serious things to discuss." 


	2. The Diogenes Club

_Mycroft Holmes's office in the Diogenes Club_

_Two hours later_

When Mycroft's new private assistant – _considered exceptionally pretty by most men – MA in Politics, best in her year – recent half a year honorary internship in Strasbourg, indebted to her parents – fluent in French – attracted by women – Mycroft insisted she was being called Anthea despite it clearly not being her real name_ – rang at Sherlock's door and insisted the young Mr. Holmes would kindly accompany her to Mr. Mycroft Holmes in a matter of great importance, Sherlock wrongly deduced _(there was always something he got wrong after all!)_ that his brother had another boring governmental case for him. As Lestrade clearly intended not to work with him for the moment – _despite he had just solved his latest case, annoying, really_ – Sherlock resolved to come with the not-quite Anthea in the – highly unlikely – event his brother had something potentially interesting or at least not exceedingly boring to offer to occupy his time.

The second Sherlock crossed the threshold of Mycroft's office in the Diogenes Club, it was clear that his belief was mistaken. Mycroft evidently was angry with him and… miserable? The first emotion was fairly easy to explain – _untouched tumbler of whiskey on Mycroft's table, next to it emptied glass that originally clearly contained the same liquid – Lestrade had obviously already been there, informing Mycroft that Sherlock had broken his foolish promise to them, no longer as absolutely clean as he had assured them to be and remain – not entirely unexpected, but not welcomed either._ The other emotion was more difficult to decipher. Until Mycroft, his gaze now firmly set on him, the for once unguarded eyes expressing his deep disappointment, unconsciously touched the simple golden ring on his left hand.

Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief. "You are divorcing – no, not your idea, you didn't care she had a lover – she requested it. You pretend you do not mind, as long as she doesn't apply for any of your estates or more money than your prenuptial agreement entitles her to. But it does bother you – you believe you have given her as tolerant and content home as what Father offered to Mummy. Not to speak of money and position in society…"

Mycroft's frown deepened with each of his brother's words. Now he snapped: "That's quite enough, Sherlock. We are not here to discuss me and my divorce. I believe we have another serious matter to speak of."

Mycroft halted when Sherlock appeared as if he wanted to interrupt him. "Anything you want to tell me?" the older Holmes asked, his voice suddenly soft, as if Mycroft was really trying to sound unthreatening. There was also another undertone and Sherlock took a moment to analyse it – _was his brother hopeful? Hopeful that Lestrade was mistaken? Hopeful that Sherlock would see the reason?_ Sherlock was not able to tell yet, there was not enough data.

"You have clearly spoken with Lestrade. What else is there to say?" he asked rather than to offer any information.

Mycroft observed him over steepled fingers, unconsciously mimicking his brother's favourite posture. "The truth perhaps?" he suggested mildly, trying to maintain the relative peace between them.

Sherlock scolded at him. "We were stuck on the case, I needed extra data, Lestrade was unwilling to give me access to the evidence, I obtained a comparatible sample for the experiment, I concluded the experiment, analysed the data, found the solution of the problem and informed Lestrade. Obviously, Lestrade didn't approve of my methods, refused to listen to me and paid you a visit to inform you. End of the story." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively.

It was Mycroft's turn to frown now. "Despite all my attempts to make it otherwise, you still seem not able to grasp the essentials here, little brother," he said, the tone once again betraying his frustration. "I am not concerned about the number of Lestrade's solved cases, I am not even concerned about the methods you feel necessary to apply to solve those little mysteries of yours. As long as you do not overstep the law to do so – or do not do anything detrimental to your health. I think we would both agree that exactly that happened earlier today and that it would be highly advisable for you to avoid any repetition of such a situation."

Sherlock smirked. "How predictable of you, Mycroft. Right then, what is it that you have planned? Will you cut down on my allowance? No money for cabs, experiments and you will no longer pay my rent?"

Mycroft smiled a predatory smile of his own. "Far worse, brother dear," he said, "far worse. I am afraid that you will need to learn how to deal with your fellow human beings. I will continue to pay your rent in Central London as long as you will find yourself a flatmate to pay half of the rent – or a steady job to support your costs. And no, I shall no longer finance your equipment for experiments; you have after all access to a well equipped medical laboratory in St Bartholomew's… Have I forgotten something? Oh, yes, concerning taxis – consider them your extra costs. Should you get yourself a well-paid job, which shouldn't be a problem for you with your supreme intelligence, I am very sure you will be able to afford them. If you are not and the Detective Inspector invites you to work with him again, I am positive that you can always ride with him in his car to visit the crime scenes."

Sherlock's face darkened with each of his brother's words. "Is that all?" he sneered, turning on his heel, ready to leave.

"Almost," Mycroft said in a low voice, almost a whisper, the tone making Sherlock to unwillingly turn back to him. Mycroft was rumaging in his drawer; his back bowed slightly, his face hidden to Sherlock. "There is one more thing," the older Holmes said, straightening himself a moment later. "I will take in safekeeping the rest of your purchase from today morning." Mycroft extended his arm, palm up. "Please?"

Sherlock scolded. No, it was no good to have a brother even more intelligent than you. Somewhere deep down he supposed that Mycroft meant well, but on the surface, he burnt with rage. Nonetheless, he reached inside of his coat pocket, pulled out a box of cigarettes and handed it over to his brother. "I hope you are satisfied now," he scorned, turning once more away.

Mycroft shook his head. "Not yet, little brother. I will take also the other pack, if I may."

Sherlock threw him a hateful frown over his shoulder. Then he wordlessly reached in the inner pocket of his coat and handed Mycroft the second box of cigarettes. "I do not have any more," he said, annoyance plain in his voice.

Mycroft nodded. "I know you don't. You never buy more, after all." He smiled a bit then, his face finally softening as he took another box out of his drawer, the very thing he had looked for earlier. "Here, Sherlock, no need to suffer needlesly," he said, offering the box to his brother.

Sherlock looked at the outstratched hand. On Mycroft's palm there was a box of nicotine patches. He nodded in acceptance or perhaps even a bit of gratitude, reached for the box and was out of the office.

Mycroft watched his brother's retreating back, his fingers once more caressing the golden band on his left hand's ring finger. _His closest family member now,_ he thought regretfully, _and yet his little brother wouldn't think more of him than consider him an enemy. Arch-enemy, perhaps._

His hand dropped to the table, where the two packs of cigarettes he had just confiscated from Sherlock rested. Mycroft eyed them with disdain, then shook his head in resignation and opened the closer one of them. He pulled out a cigarette, lighted it with matches from the same drawer where his nicotine patches had resided earlier and pulled the first draw.

Seated back in his comfortable armchair, Mycroft continued to smoke, observing the white clouds of smoke above his head. He didn't think he had ever felt so lonely as today.


	3. Letting Lestrade Down

_Sherlock Holmes's flat_

_The same day_

Two hours and three nicotine patches later, Sherlock was lying on his sofa back in the Montague Street flat, his eyes staring unseeingly at the too white ceiling _(boring)_ and his ears conveniently blocking the noises of the traffic coming from the outside _(distracting)._

The young man's mind was busy attempting to solve the case of _Lestrade's stubbornness._ _(This was how Sherlock had labelled his big current problem for himself, easily forgetting how much of it was of his own doing.)_ Sadly, his usually effortlessly working mind was repeatedly failing in its attempts today. Sherlock was upset with the Detective Inspector – no, cross it, he felt all but betrayed by the other man. No matter his methods, Sherlock solved the case. And there was nothing explicitly dangerous in his experiment; the Ecstasy, while considered a Class A substance by the British law, was by no means as dangerous or addictive as Cocaine or Morphine Sherlock used to fancy a couple of years ago.

Yet, Lestrade proved to be idiotic enough to not appreciate his results _(hard won ones on the top of it as Sherlock didn't like the feeling Ecstasy gave him a tiny bit and expected some, however minor, acknowledgement of his troubles)._ Worse even, the man refused to take even a single look at Sherlock's case notes, not to mention listen to the consulting detective for at least a second.

Finally coming out of his mind palace, Sherlock uncharacteristically swore. _Shit, shit, shit._ If he was to get the right person behind the bars, it seemed he didn't have any other option than to betray Lestrade himself – aliening with the idiots of tabloids who were reporting on the case and were no doubt more than eager to get any information which would potentially discredit the Metropolitan Police.

Much too aware of how badly Lestrade was going to feel antagonised by such a course of action, Sherlock forced himself to halt his racing thoughts for once and carefully reconsider his options once more. Sadly, as Lestrade was not answering his texts, nor picking up his calls and Sally's only reaction to his attempt to leave a message for Lestrade by her was: _'Piss off, Freak,'_ he really didn't see any other way.

With a pained sigh, Sherlock forced himself off the sofa and, once he got seated at his table-laboratory desk, he opened the laptop to look up the names of the tabloids writing about the case.

ooooo

Two days later, Lestrade entered his office to find a very upset Sally Donovan waiting there for him.

"The Freak let us – _let you_ – down," Donovan said simply, anger and disappointment plain in her icy voice. Then Sally offered Lestrade the papers. "Page 1 and 8," she instructed, her eyes flashing with a short-lived pity for him.

Not particularly interested in seeing her boss upset, Sally left the room as soon as she delivered the blow. Gregory Lestrade was staring at the newspaper she had left in his hand – quite incredibly taking in the article titled _"How Incompetent is the Metropolitan Police when Faced with the Abuse of Class A Substances."_ The words that followed were doubtlessly Sherlock's…

ooooo

_How Incompetent is the Metropolitan Police when Faced with the Abuse of Class A Substances_

_It is a sad fact that our police forces are not employing very bright-headed officers. Despite that, one would think that a simple look into the eyes of an addict, or observing of the unstoppable trembling of a junkie's hands would lead even a half-competent policeman to the deduction that they are facing a person abusing the controlled substances, in particular those classified as Class A._

_It often happens that the police officers in charge of the investigation of other than substance abuse directly related crimes forget to closely look into the possible drug abuse hidden behind their burglary or murder investigations. Unfortunately, it's the London Metropolitan Police that are making this particular mistake at the present time._

_The key suspect in the case of the murder of Laura Howard-Grey, 23, found suffocated last week in Southern London (more on the case on page 8), was able to convince the members of the New Scotland Yard that he was under the influence of 4-MTA, an Amphetamine derivative known to the public as Ecstasy in the time when the crime was committed. The drug consumed by the suspect supposedly disabled him from fully using his mental faculties as witnessed and testified by the victim's younger brother and a friend of the couple, both of them admitting to be under limited influence of the same drug during the critical time._

_While the Metropolitan Police have the luxury to let their key suspect escape their further scrutiny based on two debatable testimonies, the author of this article and the public cannot agree with this failed attitude._

_The writer of these lines decided on proving his theory that the intoxication of the suspect by the above mentioned drug was much more time-limited than the testimonies tried to convince us so far. After having run a controlled experiment on his own person with the same amount and concentration of the aforementioned controlled substance, he can now prove that this particular batch of the drug would leave a person incapable of qualified decisions for less than half of the previously claimed time._

_The conclusion of this research is that New Scotland Yard was erroneous when releasing their prime suspect from their custody. The author of this article (and equally the British public) would like to express their hope that the case of the murder of Laura Howard-Grey, a young talented Art Design student with great ambitions, would not remain unpunished despite of this unfortunate fact._

ooooo

It was not only Lestrade and his team who were troubled by this text. On the other side of the world, in a field hospital in Afghanistan, a tired British doctor opened his laptop to look up the news from Britain before he retired for the day.

To say that John H. Watson was upset when he finished reading the online version of the article would be an understatement. The doctor felt angry. How the hell an educated person such as this journalist (or whoever the author of the article was) would deliberately endanger their health and potentially even life to prove their point?

Little did he know that less than half a year later this very person would become his flatmate.


End file.
